


A Buck and Change Episode 11 or An Invitation To Revenge

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Humor, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-12
Updated: 1999-09-12
Packaged: 2018-11-10 20:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11134146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: While rescuing Fraser from a karaoke bar full of slash writers, Ray suffers horribly. This story is a sequel toA Buck and Change Episode 10 or The Meal.





	A Buck and Change Episode 11 or An Invitation To Revenge

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

 

 

  
due South: A Buck and Change 11

**Warnings: M/M, R, Sex,  
A bar stool, Diefly thoughts, a Chicago sidewalk, and I've heard this  
episode is *not* a cure for Bronchitis.**

Promises: No . . . song. Honest! Really! Don't you believe me? Well, it's *not* my fault. Karen made me do it. And Welsh isn't my fault either! Okay, lyrics, the real thing. Benny's sultry tones. And lovely, though brief, thoughts of Ma.  Quiz by Laurie Taylor.. Beta Reading by Dyevka. 

#  A BUCK & CHANGE - Episode 11

#  or _An Invitation to Revenge_

#  by Mitch Hudson 

A headache! Yes. He _did_ have a headache. How odd. Never before  
in his life had he allowed himself to be subjected to something as incorporeal  
as a headache. Two interminable days had passed since his lover had fled  
Lieutenant Welsh's office singing that * _Secret Agent_ * song.

Constable Benton Fraser, spinal column in the optimal position, shoulders flexed back, strolled down Canary street. Neither left nor right did the turn his head. His attention was focused on attaining his destination in as efficient a manner as possible. 

Trailing behind his two-legged companion, the pale wolf, Diefenbaker sniffed short and quick. More deep-fried foods were near. He dropped his head to catch the heavy scent roiling its tendrils of essence along the ground. 

He stopped and the corrugated soles of field boots continued their rhythmic betraying noises. His companion's progress never wavered as Diefenbaker padded into an alley. 

Yes! Fried yeast biscuits would be stalked, captured and consumed, perhaps with a little fish. A little fish wouldn't hurt. Just avoid dairy, and, well . . . If a little butter was lying about, who was he to refuse it? After all, it wasn't like keeping Kosher was a big issue with him. *His* ma wouldn't be giving him that once-over when he got home tonight. Sometimes he wondered how the two-legged Ray put up with it like he did. If Diefenbaker's ma had been an *Italian* mama? The wolf shuddered and broke into an easy lope. 

Fraser quickened his pace. Inspector Thatcher expected her dry cleaning delivered to her no later than 4:45 post meridian and if he arrived precisely three minutes early he would have time for a cool drink in the beverage purveyors establishment adjacent to his destination. 

As he approached his new goal his headache developed a definite beat, an unpleasant beat. Fraser allowed his forehead to crease, allowed his body to display an outward sign of the discomfort inside it. 

A snatch of music drifted out the door he passed. Fraser stopped in mid stride. It was a wonder he didn't fall over with only one foot on the ground and his body leaning forward from his momentum. But the Mountie managed it with a certain . . . " _I don't know what_." 

The music was in perfect rhythm with the pulsing pain in his head. The words were garbled but he recognized the song. One of _Ray's_ . . . tunes he'd emitted the last time they'd been together. How could the fates be so cruel to a Royal Canadian Mounted Police Officer? 

Se cret _aye_ gent man- Oh, dear. The words had actually been formed by his own rebellious mind! Fraser shuddered which set his body in motion once again and he found himself in the dim, cool interior of Karosi's Karaoke Bar  & Grille. The interior was all that was dim and cool about the establishment at the moment. Fraser instantly deduced the reason for its current state. Happy Hour. 

"Howdy, Constable." 

Fraser turned left toward the voice, fixing a pleasant expression firmly on his face. He *was* in his dress reds, a living representative of the corps and as such must present the correct image to the abundance of Americans he encountered, the swirling teeming, waves of humanity, the sea of sapient beings, the masses of mankind, crowd of civilization, horde of Homo Sapiens, swarm of society, throng of-- 

"You look a mite poorly there, fella. He looks a little done in, don't 'cha think?" the gentleman in the oddly blocked Stetson asked his dark haired table mate. 

"Yeah. I think so. Fraser," the table mate asked, "would you like to sit down for a minute?" He pushed out the chair beside him. 

"Thank you kindly," Fraser returned with a confident smile, "but I seem to be a bit lacking in time at the moment. I only came in for a cool drink." Fraser removed his Stetson, eyeing its black brand-mate tilted back at a precarious angle on the first gentleman's head. The man himself was also tipped back in his chair, a perilous position Ray Vecchio chose to place himself in at every opportunity. 

Oh, Ray! Fraser hung his head down as he was doubly assaulted by inner despair and outer inharmonics. 

"Hey, don't look so peaked there, Mountie. The song's almost over. You don't like that Sean Connery music?" 

"It's not *Sean Connery* music," the dark-haired man interjected. "If you bothered to learn the most rudimentary facts of--" 

"Ah, come on," the Stetson-wearing man protested to his companion in a nasally drawl, "you're gonna carry on so's Fraser don't have time to get hisself a drink." 

The shorter gentleman rose and brought his drink to Fraser who took it absently. The Mountie's blue eyes shifted to the stool in the nearby corner where a young man in a rather lavenderish suede suit stared at a television screen reading the words he was attempting to sing. 

Ray had sung it so . . . friskily in the car. But at the station as he departed, leaving Fraser destitute, the delivery of the words had taken on a completely different meaning merely by Ray's manipulation of pronunciation, tonal range and *certainly* cadence. 

Oh, Ray!  Fraser gulped the drink. 

"Slap 'is back hard. He's a 'gonna choke ta death on that carrotey gunk you handed 'im." 

"I *am* slapping him hard. Give him something to drink, something to help clear his throat!" 

"All right. All right. Jeez, no reason to get all testy 'bout it," the Stetson-wearing man drawled as he thrust a glass of amber liquid against Fraser's lips and helpfully held it firmly as the fluid flowed down the Mountie's abused throat. 

Fraser realized his throat was on fire now. Flames must surely be leaping from between his teeth. He pushed past the men and made his way to the bar. The glass of water he so un-Canadianly snatched from another patron's hand went down into his stomach in one gulp. It didn't help. It might not have been water. Fraser sagged against the brass rail as the alerted bartender stalked toward him. 

"You don't suppose it could have been the carrot juice, do you?" the dark haired man asked in dismay. 

His companion took off his hat and slapped the brim against his Levied thigh. "No," he said through a restrained chuckle as he took his seat again. 

"An allergic reaction of some kind--" 

"Hell, no. I think it was the bourbon part of your little *vitamin* drink, darlin'." 

"The *bourbon*?" he asked as he turned on his companion. "But if you thought that . . . you gave him *your* drink. That rot-gut stuff you insist on ordering no matter *where* we dine." 

A pearl-snapped sleeve whisked out and drew him down on his companion's lap but he stiff-armed away from the man. "And just what do you think *Ray* is going to say about this? You giving his Mountie . . . " he twisted around to the entrance to follow his companion's bemused gaze. 

Ray followed Lieutenant Welsh through the bar's open door. A Karaoke bar. He couldn't possibly imagine a worse place to have that *talk* the Lieutenant had been hinting at for the last two days. Glumly he followed his superior officer to a table far into the right. 

"Always wanted to try out one of these bars," Welsh said happily as he possessed a chair with a good view at one of the empty tables. 

Ray slumped across from him and propped his elbows on the table. Blessed silence descended upon the patrons as the prefabricated, premixed prerecorded music ended. Ray laid his forehead down on his crossed hands and Welsh's cell phone trilled. He plugged his fingers in his ears to block out the Lieutenants end of the conversation. 

"--for my lover," Fraser sighed into the microphone. Whistles and scattered applause met his dedication. "You see, we had a . . . slight . . . disagreement a short time ago and I-" he swallowed past the numbness that existed where his throat should have been, "really, really, really, *really* relali- re *al* ize that I've been a shellfish, cold, and unsharing piss-head," he flinched, "unsharing person and I should have been much more forthright in communicating my feelings. Cause I *love* him." 

Loud applause broke out across the bar. Several patrons stamped their feet and thumped on the tables enthusiastically. Fraser smiled his appreciation to them all, resisting the urge to run around the room and hug each of the patrons. He wiped his damp forehead and nodded to Arnie, the very friendly bartender's assistant to push that button. 

Melodious strains drifted over the red-clad Mountie and he swayed in time to the blissfullness. 

"I have to meet the commander in the Mayor's office in twenty minutes." Welsh glared at his weary detective. "But we *will* make time for our little chat, Detective." 

"Oh, yes sir," Ray said as he shook his head from side to side. "Absolutely. You can count on *me*, sir. Just name the time and place and I'll be there, with bells on, sir." 

Welsh scowled. It really pissed him off when Ray got so sarcastically agreeable. It reminded him of a young child exerting his first skills at talking back to an adult. He'd long since left the stage of having to deal with difficult offspring. A fleeting thought ghosted through his mind. Ray was Sofia's *son*. It was a package deal, he realized. One enchanting Italian lady of noble bearing and one obnoxious overgrown *boy*. 

"You just stay here and have dinner," Welsh said with a strained smile as he stood and slapped a fifty dollar bill on the table. "I've never been here before so tomorrow you can tell me how the food is. And it's on me . . . son." He fled before the word gagged him. 

Ray slowly thumped his forehead on the table-top. 

". . . feee lings, trying to for get myyy feelings of loooove." 

Fraser ripped open the Velcro tab of his high collar. 

"Teardrops . . . rolling down on *my* face, trying to for geeeet my, fee lings ooov looo ve. *Feee* lings whohw whohw whohw feee lings, I wish I'd never met you- Raaaayyy, you'll never . . ." 

Ray's head came up, and he froze. Like a gazelle on the African Serengeti, he was instantly alert with every fiber of his being seeking first with his sense of hearing, then tasting the breeze, feeling for vibrations through the ground. Like any competent herd beast would, he flicked his razor sharp gaze at those nearby. Stampede, the flight response that hoofed beasts knew could result in their death. Was it building in those around him? 

No. The others were grinning, swaying on rhythm, oblivious to the imminent disaster. Ray bolted to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the floor. No heads turned his way. 

"Feelings, feelings like I've never lost you and feelings like I've never have you again in my life." 

The singer choked on a flood of emotion and Ray whirled around. The red of a tunic stood out clearly amid the throng of patrons who'd arrived in time for the reduced drink prices. 

Ray felt his body waver from its firm anchor in the universe. 

"Feelings, whohw whohow-" 

"Benny?" Ray drifted toward the patch of red. 

"--again in mihiy aharr mzzz--" 

He drew close enough to touch the figure, so he did. 

Fraser jumped and stumbled off the padded stool. "Ray? Oh, _Ray_ , what are you doing here? Have you come to get me? Are you here for _me_?" 

"Benny? What the hell--" Ray peered into the blue depths of Benny's moist eyes. Love wreaked from them as much as the alcohol on his breath. He cupped his palm around the Mountie's wet cheek. "Of course I have, lover," he whispered as he stepped closer. 

Fraser's hands, including the one clutching the microphone, slid up Ray's reassuringly solid, Armani-suited chest. 

"I've come to get you, Benny. Are you ready--" Ray felt his voice echo through the deathly silent bar, amplified by the microphone. He drew his brows together in consternation and peered over his shoulder. A few chairs suddenly scraped across the floor, fabric rustled as bodies were repositioned. But none of the patrons were looking at he and his lover. They were looking down at their tables, off into space, at the tantalizing Carravaggio over the bar, anywhere except  at the two men in the spotlight beside the karaoke machine. 

"Oh, Ray. I love you," Fraser sighed the words into Ray's ear and the microphone. 

Ray snatched the amplifying device from Benny's finely boned hand and thumped it on the stool. Oh, the seat was still deliciously warm from his lover's bottom. With an effort Ray withdrew his touch on the hard wood and transferred it to the cause of that warmth. He leaned against his lover and whispered something in his ear. 

Fraser chuckled as Ray's breath tickled his earlobe. He shied away and licked Ray's ear. 

"Cut it out, Benny. We're in a public place." He saw the giddiness drain from Fraser's face immediately. Ray ascertained that his right hand, resting as it did on his lover's round cheek was totally out of sight from prying eyes, (of which there appeared to be an amazing absence of) so he gave Benny a reassuring squeeze. 

This proved to be all the encouragement Fraser needed. He wrapped himself around Ray and began licking every bit of flesh that touched air unhampered by clothing. 

"Cut it out, Benny." Ray struggled with the arms around his neck but made no progress. He inched backward, attempting to move Benny and himself from the spotlight's glare. He made it four feet before bumping onto a table. 

"Sorry," he mumbled but the occupants stunningly _failed_ to notice him or his Canadian appendage. He inched toward the exit but two tables from it Benny succeeded in getting his hand inside Ray's charcoal-gray Armani slacks. 

"Fraser!" he yelped and twisted away. 

"Restroom, Ray," Fraser commanded as he now took control of their direction of travel. He moved them left, away from the exit and toward a door displaying a circle with an arrow protruding from it. 

"Benny!" Ray sputtered. "Benny, don't you _dare_ \--" A yelp burst from him as he felt his feet leave the ground. 

Fraser positioned one of Ray's legs up over his hip and settled Ray's groin against his own. He clamped onto Ray's supple neck, clearly the most erotic area within easy reach and continued to weave a circuitous route to the door. 

"Benny, you can't-- This is _so-_ \- Put me _down_. Right now. Benny?" Ray tried to protest, tried to get free from the walking fortress that held him fast. 

Metal clinked to the ground in their wake. Fraser misjudged the doorframe and brought Ray up hard against the wall. 

A groan wrung from the squashed detective as Benny's hard sex pressed into his sensitive groin. Ray gasped. 

Fraser took his love's mouth, his tongue breaching Ray's moistness. He strained forward, pressing his need against the luscious body he cradled. He pressed again, and again as Ray writhed against him. 

"Ben--" Ray's protest was swallowed greedily. He twisted away. "Benny! Please, don't-- you can't--" Fraser recaptured him. 

Apparently some of his words had penetrated the testosterone soaked brain of the Canadian. Fraser lunged back a step then leaned his body toward the door and Ray felt them sucked through the opening, into privacy. 

A roar of approval swept through the bar's patrons who cheered and applauded. A thin blond slid from his chair and quick-stepped to the fallen metal object. He scrambled on hands and knees and touched the prize. 

A shadow fell across his body like the silhouette of a hawk against the noon sun. The shadow descended and a pointed-toed boot squashed his fingers flat over the metal. The blond peered up in mortal fear. 

He couldn't see the face of the man above him, it was shadowed by the western hat on his head. The man struck a wooden match on a small box and lit the cigar clenched in his teeth. 

"Um, you-- you want something?" 

A smoke ring was his only answer. "O- okay. You can have em. Honest," he insisted. The boot rose a half an inch and the blond scooped up the metal and held it out to the smoker. 

"Thank you," he said around the rolled tobacco leaves and turned away. Then he stopped, turned back to the blond and added, "kindly." As he paused to retrieve his table mate he folded the handcuffs and slipped them in the back pocket of his Levis. At the door the cuffs were pulled from his pocket by his handsome companion. 

"I think I'd better take charge of these for now." And the two men were gone. 

Conversation in the bar cycled in a kaleidoscope of colors and textures through the patrons. 

"Do you think they'll come out before midnight?" 

"Okay, I'll be shocked if we see either of them before dawn.' 

"But I have to go to the john!" 

"Oh, honestly. Go to the dry cleaners next door." 

"For a _tea_ party? No thanks. 

"Hey, anything can happen if the writer can justify it! I'm laying odds we won't see them till after midnight. Anybody want to bet? Might make a nice list challenge." 

"Wait! What about Ray? Anybody think he'll come through the door or will he go out the window? And who can tell me his badge number?" 

"Are you suggesting something like that tape train? I think the window. After all, you gotta remember who he's in there with." 

"What do you mean, who he's in there with? Ray wouldn't be in there with anybody else!" 

"Oh? What about the sourpuss he came in with?" 

A chorus of no's drowned the last speaker out. Babbling chaos reigned over the room now. 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The end of this bit of chaos. Will the karaoke bar patrons continue to write slash forever? I hope so! Tune in next week for: A Buck & Change episode 12 or . . . Heaven and Hell (Oh, come on. You knew I would!) 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

QUIZ By Laurie Taylor.

1 What did Inspector Thatcher expect Fraser to deliver unto her? 

  * A A good hiding?
  * B Her dry cleaning?
  * C A baby?
  * D A comprehensive set of the Encyclopaedia Brittanica?



2 What had Ray done previously in the car that Fraser now described with  
the adjective 'friskily'?

3 Fill in the blanks: Fraser's hands, including the one clutching the ------- slid up Ray's reassuringly solid ------- ------- --------. 4 What does the phrase 'cut it out, Benny' mean in this context? A Kindly have yourself castrated, Benny? B Cease and desist with your amorous lingual thrusts, Benny? C Please use the scissors to create a paper doily? 

Under no circumstances should this quiz be attempted by gorillas or people wearing mauve. 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

ANSWERS.

1 B.   
2 Ray had sung.   
3 Microphone Armani-suited chest   
4 B. 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

FEELINGS 

Feelings, nothing more than feelings, trying to forget my feelings of love. Teardrops rolling down on my face, trying to forget my feelings of love. 

Feelings, for all my life I'll feel it. I wish I've never met you, (Ray); you'll never come again. 

Feelings, wo-o-o feelings, wo-o-o, feel you again in my arms. 

Feelings, feelings like I've never lost you and feelings like I've never have you again in my heart. 

Feelings, for all my life I'll feel it. I wish I've never met you, (Ray); you'll never come again. 

Feelings, feelings like I've never lost you and feelings like I've never have you again in my life. 

Feelings, wo-o-o feelings,   
wo-o-o, feelings again in my arms.   
Feelings...(repeat & fade) 

\- Morris Albert 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

End

Disclaimer: This story is written for the private entertainment  
of fans. No infringement of any copyrights held by Alliance Communication,  
CBS, CTV, or any others is intended. This story is not published for  
profit, and the author does not give permission for this story to be  
reproduced in any form. The author makes no claims on the characters  
or their portrayal by the creation of this story.

Mitch_H@hotmail.com

geocities.com/soho/lofts/5843/mh-fict.htm

  


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